Numb
by Socrates7727
Summary: IWSC round three - Spell Damage! Not a happy endings, angsty, how Draco's been affected by the Cruciatus curse over the years


AN I don't own HP or any of the characters! Enjoy!

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Story Title: Numb

School and Year: Mahoutokoro - Year Two

Theme: Spell Damage - This round you will need to look at how spells can affect a wizard or witch positively or negatively.

Main Prompt: [Emotion] Heartbreak

Additional Prompts: [Action] Getting into a fight, [Emotion] Fear

Wordcount: 2976

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There was something about him that had fundamentally _changed_ since that first time. He could still remember the look on his mother's face, and the way his father's lips had curved and tightened around the syllables. _Crucio_. He'd been fourteen at the time, but there had been so much going on in the world that no one had stopped to notice him. In the grand scheme of the war, he was nothing.

Sometimes, that insignificance had granted him mercy. Other times, it gave him invisibility. Either way, it had evaporated in the wake of the Dark Lord's defeat and he was left open and exposed in all the wrong ways. People studied him more intensely than ever—hoping to see him crack—and they were starting to notice. Draco was finally noticing, too.

Now that he had the time to be introspective, he could see the patterns in his own behavior. It had started small, as all things do, but he'd escalated to the point that nothing could hurt him. But no, that wasn't quite right. Things very much could and very much _would_ hurt him—the Fates had proven that time and time again—it was just that nothing would ever compare to that curse.

He became reckless in baby steps. First, he didn't study for a test, and then he stopped wearing any protective gear when he played Quidditch. Hooch said nothing about it, though. His magic became explosive and, when he allowed it to go unchecked, would lash out like the magic of an eleven-year-old. Professors noticed, but didn't intervene. He went for walks through the Forbidden Forest alone, often at night, and he approached the creatures with certainty in his step—not confident that they wouldn't hurt him, but confident that he wouldn't care if they _did_.

That was the crux of the issue, Draco was beginning to realize: he didn't care. His body was weighed down by numbness, and the emotional part of his brain seemed to have died. He truly, genuinely, didn't care about his own wellbeing and he cared even less about his relationships with other people.

Pansy, Theo, Crabbe, even Blaise: he cut himself off from all of them. Some of them had fought it more than others—Pansy, in particular, had been difficult to shake—but they'd all accepted the fact that his life had no place for them anymore. Even his father had allowed him to sever their relationship, letting Azkaban's walls act as a natural barrier between their souls.

The hardest, though, had been Narcissa. He'd taken the weekend to go visit her, and he'd practiced what he wanted to say in his head the whole way there. He'd explained how different they were, how he couldn't respect her actions during the war, and how he wished her nothing but the best. He'd explained that he wanted space—that it was best for both of them, really—and how he wanted to focus on his studies.

She'd seen through the lie.

Narcissa—and it was Narcissa, not _mother_—had broken down into tears and actually _begged_ him for a relationship or for a second chance. She'd apologized a thousand times and he could see that he was breaking her heart, truly, but he just didn't… care. He'd left her crying in the parlor, sobbing the way all the mothers had at the funerals after the trials.

It sounded incredibly harsh and vindictive, but he genuinely hadn't cared. He still didn't, if he was being honest with himself, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he felt nothing towards any of them. Or anything, for that matter. Maybe the numbness was something from the war, or maybe it was just his way of coping, but something in him knew it went back to that first curse. It had only grown since then, finding strength in every dark spell that touched his skin.

Subconsciously, that emptiness scared him. He knew he should be afraid of it, and he knew that he should be concerned about the path he was headed down, but he wasn't. The emptiness was uncomfortable, but it was easier than the pain.

Slowly, though, his discomfort began to grow. Eighth year dragged on, and, as the monotony settled around him like a layer of dust, he began to resent the numbness that ran in his veins. He ached to feel something—_anything_, good or bad—and he was desperate enough to fight for it.

Or, more accurately, to fight. It was stupid, especially with his already precarious standing with the Ministry, but he began picking fights because he didn't know what else to do. Most of the other students hated him, so it wasn't hard to provoke them into casting a good hex or two. He knew exactly what to say, usually, and exactly how hard to push someone to get that jolt of adrenaline and fear in his body. It was a drug, though, and he built up a tolerance.

By November of their Eighth year, Draco had acquired a favorite target. Of course, it was the Chosen One, the Savior himself—and part of Draco knew that it'd _always_ been Potter who could get to him, for better or for worse—but Potter rose to the challenge.

It was sick—and Draco knew it was sick—but his favorite place to be was pinned against the wall with Potter's wand at his throat. He knew the Chosen One like the back of his hand and he'd perfected the art of playing his emotions like a violin, but it was that _look _that Potter had. The one no one else ever seemed to be able to match.

It was pure rage, mixed with that impulsive power that made the Savior so heroic. Power that could be felt in the tiny scars still covering Draco's skin. A reminder that Harry was very capable of hurting him—and that he _would _hurt him, under the right circumstances—and that made the threat all the more real. He shivered under that gaze every time, relishing in the way that fear coiled in his stomach. It made him _feel._

Harry was too smart for his own good, though. Draco could easily work him into that frenzied rage but, like an addict, he always needed just a little more to get the same rush, and he'd pushed too far this time.

They were alone. Draco knew how stupid it was, but the fact that Harry could actually hurt him the way he had in that bathroom back then was intoxicating. He lived off that fear because it was the only thing strong enough to combat the numbness. But he was in his home away from home: squeezed against a wall, with Harry's weight keeping him there and a wand jabbed under his jaw. The Gryffindor's eyes flared at him, but then Harry backed off.

"You like this." It wasn't a question, but Draco still felt like he should answer. At the very least, he knew he should try to deny it, but a bigger part of him demanded to know _why_. Why did he care if Harry knew the truth? Why did he care about anything?

"Why me?" He didn't need to answer, apparently, because Harry was already on to the next thing. Those green eyes were staring at him, accusing him, but Draco honestly didn't know what crime he'd committed now. He didn't care.

"Because you're a real threat." Harry frowned, scrunching his face up in confusion. "Don't look so surprised, Potter. I chose you because you _will _actually hurt me, and you've proven that time and time again." Harry's frown deepened, as if he didn't understand, but Draco merely pulled up the hem of his own shirt. The tiny, shimmering scars all over his body glistened in the light and Harry audibly choked. He watched the Gryffindor recoil, but he didn't feel even a hint of guilt for putting so much anguish in that famous face.

"You need to stop." That was the wrong thing to say, though, because Draco could feel the beautiful rush of adrenaline fading with every second that passed and he was getting desperate.

"I don't _need _to do anything, Potter, and you're in no position to be telling me what to do." He cocked his head a bit to one side, palming the outline of his wand through his robes as if he would actually use it. As if he wasn't just trying to provoke the Savior again.

"Malfoy, what you're doing isn't healthy. This isn't a way to cope, even if you think it is." Harry sounded so sure of himself, but Draco could smell the uncertainty on him. His eyes kept flicking towards the exit and his hand was still curled tightly around his wand—he knew that Draco was still a threat, at least in theory.

"Healthy isn't really my main concern." And it wasn't, honestly, because Draco didn't particularly care whether or not his so-called 'coping mechanism' was good for him, he just wanted to feel something. Even if he had to fight someone to feel it, and even if that someone had to be Harry.

"I'm not going to fight you." Draco's stomach churned in his gut, trying to digest those words in that order. Normally, he would have laughed in the face of something that was so blatantly a lie, but he could see scraps of that old Gryffindor nobility starting to peek through the anger. Harry took another step back and put his wand back up his sleeve.

"I'm not going to enable whatever this is, and I'm not going to fight you, Malfoy." He sounded so confident… Draco swore at himself because he should have known better. Harry's temper was strong, but nothing would ever outweigh his hero complex and the Gryffindor was looking at him less and less like an enemy as they simmered in the silence.

"I'm not the kind of person you can save." But Harry's eyes didn't flare, even as Draco more firmly gripped his wand, and, if anything, his gaze softened. With _pity_. That familiar numbness curled in his chest as Draco realized that Harry was looking at him like some homesick First Year who could be coddled through their emotions. Well, lucky for them, Draco didn't have any emotions to be coddled through.

"You're a coward." Harry didn't take the bait, though. Draco could feel his control slipping and he knew he was losing the only thing he'd ever found that could break through the emptiness. He couldn't lose it—he _wouldn't_—but he'd run out of insults and challenges a long time ago. None of them were genuine anymore. But, even if they had been, he doubted that Harry would do anything but leave him there—alone, empty, and grasping at air.

"Find someone else to pick fights with, Malfoy, I don't want—" Harry's voice cut off the second Draco closed the distance between them. His skin burned where their robes touched, and then their chests, and then… lips. It was stupid, and it was probably one of the most shameful things Draco had ever done, but he had his fingers curled in Harry's shirt and he finally _felt something_ and it didn't even matter what that feeling was because it was _strong_ and—

"What the hell is wrong with you!?" He hit the floor, gaping and trying to find the words—any words, honestly, not even the right ones—to explain why he'd done that, but he couldn't. Harry's hand curled into a fist at his side. The Gryffindor looked _livid_ and, for a second, Draco truly believed that he was about to be beaten within an inch of his life. No impact came, though, and he looked up in surprise.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"You're not bloody 'sorry', Malfoy, you're not _anything!_" Harry visibly took a deep breath, but Draco was more okay than he'd been in weeks and the sheer adrenaline coursing through his veins was enough to make him focus. "Why me? Did you think I didn't have enough to deal with the war and the funerals and… Merlin, why am I even trying to justify myself? You don't care. You're an addict and all you want is your next fix—from me, from anyone, from anything! Was I just the easiest target?"

Draco floundered, trying to remember how to breathe and trying to form a coherent sentence. Harry was angry. Rejection burned behind his eyes, cresting over him like a wave of curses being cast at him. Tears were starting down his cheeks, but he didn't even have the emotional capacity to be ashamed of it, let alone the fact that Harry was watching him cry.

"I don't know why it works with you." He didn't—he had guesses, or theories, but he didn't know why Harry could impact him so much more than other people he'd grown up with—and it wasn't fair. Everything was slipping through his fingers, including the adrenaline, and he wanted to understand. Why was Harry different?

"Why _what_ works?" Harry was genuinely asking, or at least trying to, but Draco could only shake his head. He didn't know how to explain something he didn't understand himself, and it only felt more hopeless as he realized the implication of Harry leaving. Numbness, forever.

"You…" He wanted to say that Harry could make him feel, even if the only emotion that could get through was fear. He wanted to know why it was different—why other people could threaten him, or hurt him, and mean nothing to his psyche—and he wanted Harry to understand that he was just trying to get by. That Harry was his lifeline, and that some faraway part of him felt guilty for putting that responsibility on the Gryffindor. But, more than anything, he just didn't want Harry to leave.

"Please help me." It was the closest thing to begging that had ever come from Draco's lips. His skin prickled with the shame he should have been feeling, but he was numb to it like always. He swallowed hard, watching Harry weigh the request in his mind.

"You need professional help, Malfoy. I'll get Pomfrey or Blaise or whoever you want to talk to, and there are mind healers you can contact through McGonagall." Already, Draco was shaking his head. This was wrong—this was _all_ wrong—and he needed Harry to understand that he was _special_ and that no one else could get through the numbness. Yeah, he probably needed professional help, but couldn't Harry see the difference? Couldn't he _understand_ that things like seeing a mind healer didn't even seem like a possibility when he was buried in that numbness?

"No, it has to be you. I don't know why and I can't—"

"I'm not the person to help you, Draco." He felt like someone had just gutted him with a knife. For the first time in his life, he thought he might have found something worse than the Cruciatus curse.

"I'll let Pomfrey know that you want to look into seeing a mind healer and I can try to get your mom a visitor's pass here, but that's all. I'm not going to fight you or enable this sick coping mechanism, and I'm not going to save you from yourself. That isn't healthy for either of us."

Maybe it was the first name, or maybe it was the fact that Harry's tone felt more and more like a goodbye, but Draco just crumbled. He buried his face between his knees and sobbed like a child. It occurred to him, distantly, that he'd been wrong to assume that fear was the only emotion that could break through the emptiness. Apparently, the utterly crushing weight of watching his last chance slip away was enough. Shards of betrayal and hopelessness stabbed into his chest.

When he managed to lift his head, Harry was gone. True to his word, he'd sent both Pomfrey and Blaise to get him—the former with a mind healer referral form, and the latter with a bottle of water and some chocolate—but it did nothing. It would continue to do nothing too, he knew, because it wasn't Harry.

Vaguely, he knew that he'd crossed a line somewhere between the insults and that kiss. Harry had every right to hate him for the rest of their lives and Draco theoretically cared about that but, in a much more real sense, he was okay. Because, as twisted as it sounded, the heartbreak had managed to override the numbness just as strongly as fear had. So, he wallowed in it and used the feeling to ground himself a little more in reality when Pomfrey started quizzing him on his symptoms.

He sat there in Pomfrey's office, answering her questions on a scale of one to five, and he clung to the ache in his chest. It wasn't a good feeling, of course, but it was _a feeling_. For the moment, it was grounding enough for him to recognize that he was getting help and that Harry had probably done the best thing possible for them both. The numbness had taken a backseat, temporarily, and he reveled in the pain.

While the fear was usually adrenaline-based and fleeting at best, the crushing despair in his chest felt sturdy, like it was made to endure. Part of him hoped it would, honestly, and part of him already missed the numbness. He didn't believe that Pomfrey could help him—and he didn't believe that a mind healer could either—but he wasn't actively protesting it, which was progress for the moment.

Harry had rejected him—again—and it stung worse than the first time. It felt like a Cruciatus curse or a Sectumsempra cutting open his heart, but this time it couldn't be healed by a wave of his Godfather's wand. This time, _he_ couldn't be healed by _anyone's_ wand. Or, maybe, he just couldn't be healed...

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Thanks so much for reading!


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